OBSESSION
By the end of the week Brandes had done much to efface any unpleasant
impression he had made on Ruhannah Carew.
The girl had never before had to do with any mature man. She was
therefore at a disadvantage in every way, and her total lack of
experience emphasised the odds.
Nobody had ever before pointedly preferred her, paid her undivided
attention; no man had ever sought her, conversed with her, deferred to
her, interested himself in her. It was entirely new to her, this
attention which Brandes paid her. Nor could she make any comparisons
between this man and other men, because she knew no other men. He was
an entirely novel experience to her; he had made himself interesting,
had proved amusing, considerate, kind, generous, and apparently
interested in what interested her. And if his unfeigned preference for
her society disturbed and perplexed her, his assiduous civilities
toward her father and mother were gradually winning from her far more
than anything he had done for her.
His white-faced, odd little friend had gone; he himself had taken
quarters at the Gayfield House, where a car like the wrecked one was
stabled for his use.
He had already taken her father and mother and herself everywhere
within motoring distance; he had accompanied them to church; he
escorted her to the movies; he walked with her in the August evenings
after supper, rowed her about on the pond, fished from the bridge,
told her strange stories in the moonlight on the verandah, her father
and mother interested and attentive.
For the career of Mr. Eddie Brandes was capable of furnishing material
for interesting stories if carefully edited, and related with
discretion and circumspection. He had been many things to many
men--and to several women--he had been a tinhorn gambler in the
Southwest, a miner in Alaska, a saloon keeper in Wyoming, a fight
promoter in Arizona. He had travelled profitably on popular ocean
liners until requested to desist; Auteuil, Neuilly, Vincennes, and
Longchamps knew him as tout, bookie, and, when fitfully prosperous, as
a plunger. Epsom knew him once as a welcher; and knew him no more.
He had taken a comic opera company through the wheat-belt--one way; he
had led a burlesque troupe into Arizona and had traded it there for a
hotel.
"When Eddie _wants_ to talk," Stull used to say, "that smoke,
_Othello_, hasn't got nothing on him."
However, Brandes seldom chose to talk. This was one of his rare
garrulous occasions; and, with careful self-censorship, he was making
an endless series of wonder-tales out of the episodes and _faits
divers_ common to the experience of such as he.
So, of moving accidents by flood and field this man had a store, and
he contrived to make them artistically innocuous and perfectly fit for
family consumption.
Further, two of his friends motored over from Saratoga to see him,
were brought to supper at the Carews'; and they gave him a clean bill
of moral health. They were, respectively, "Doc" Curfoot--suave haunter
of Peacock Alley and gentleman "capper"--whom Brandes introduced as
the celebrated specialist, Doctor Elbert Curfoot--and Captain Harman
Quint, partner in "Quint's" celebrated temple of chance--introduced as
the distinguished navigating officer which he appeared to be. The
steering for their common craft, however, was the duty of the eminent
Doc.
They spent the evening on the verandah with the family; and it was
quite wonderful what a fine fellow each turned out to be--information
confidentially imparted to the Reverend Mr. Carew by each of the three
distinguished gentlemen in turn.
Doc Curfoot, whose business included the ability to talk convincingly
on any topic, took the Reverend Mr. Carew's measure and chose
literature; and his suave critique presently became an interesting
monologue listened to in silence by those around him.
Brandes had said, "Put me in right, Doc," and Doc was accomplishing
it, partly to oblige Brandes, partly for practice. His agreeable voice
so nicely pitched, so delightfully persuasive, recapitulating all the
commonplaces and cant phrases concerning the literature of the day,
penetrated gratefully the intellectual isolation of these humble
gentlepeople, and won very easily their innocent esteem. With the
Reverend Mr. Carew Doc discussed such topics as the influence on
fiction of the ethical ideal. With Mrs. Carew Captain Quint exchanged
reminiscences of travel on distant seas. Brandes attempted to maintain
low-voiced conversation with Rue, who responded in diffident
monosyllables to his advances.
* * * * *
Brandes walked down to their car with them after they had taken their
leave.
"What's the idea, Eddie?" inquired Doc Curfoot, pausing before the
smart little speeder.
"It's straight."
"Oh," said Doc, softly, betraying no surprise--about the only thing he
never betrayed. "Anything in it for you, Eddie?"
"Yes. A good girl. The kind you read about. Isn't that enough?"
"Minna chucked you?" inquired Captain Quint.
"She'll get her decree in two or three months. Then I'll have a home.
And everything that you and I are keeps out of that home, Cap. See?"
"Certainly," said Quint. "Quite right, Eddie."
Doc Curfoot climbed in and took the wheel; Quint followed him.
"Say," he said in his pleasant, guarded voice, "watch out that Minna
don't double-cross you, Eddie."
"How?"
"--Or shoot you up. She's some _schutzen-fest_, you know, when she
turns loose----"
"Ah, I tell you she _wants_ the divorce. Abe Grittlefeld's crazy about
her. He'll get Abe Gordon to star her on Broadway; and that's enough
for her. Besides, she'll marry Maxy Venem when she can afford to keep
him."
"_You_ never understood Minna Minti."
"Well, who ever understood any German?" demanded Brandes. "She's one
of those sour-blooded, silent Dutch women that make me ache."
Doc pushed the self-starter; there came a click, a low humming.
Brandes' face cleared and he held out his square-shaped hand:
"You fellows," he said, "have put me right with the old folks here.
I'll do the same for you some day. Don't talk about this little girl
and me, that's all."
"All the same," repeated Doc, "don't take any chances with Minna.
She's on to you, and she's got a rotten Dutch disposition."
"That's right, Doc. And say, Harman,"--to Quint--"tell Ben he's doing
fine. Tell him to send me what's mine, because I'll want it very soon
now. I'm going to take a month off and then I'm going to show Stein
how a theatre can be run."
"Eddie," said Quint, "it's a good thing to think big, but it's a damn
poor thing to talk big. Cut out the talk and you'll be a big man some
day."
The graceful car moved forward into the moonlight; his two friends
waved an airy adieu; and Brandes went slowly back to the dark verandah
where sat a young girl, pitifully immature in mind and body--and two
old people little less innocent for all their experience in the ranks
of Christ, for all the wounds that scarred them both in the over-sea
service which had broken them forever.
"A very handsome and distinguished gentleman, your friend Dr.
Curfoot," said the Reverend Mr. Carew. "I imagine his practice in New
York is not only fashionable but extensive."
"Both," said Brandes.
"I assume so. He seems to be intimately acquainted with people whose
names for generations have figured prominently in the social columns
of the New York press."
"Oh, yes, Curfoot and Quint know them all."
Which was true enough. They had to. One must know people from whom one
accepts promissory notes to liquidate those little affairs peculiar to
the temple of chance. And New York's best furnished the neophytes for
these rites.
"I thought Captain Quint very interesting," ventured Ruhannah. "He
seems to have sailed over the entire globe."
"Naval men are always delightful," said her mother. And, laying her
hand on her husband's arm in the dark: "Do you remember, Wilbour, how
kind the officers from the cruiser _Oneida_ were when the rescue party
took us aboard?"
"God sent the _Oneida_ to us," said her husband dreamily. "I thought
it was the end of the world for us--for you and me and baby Rue--that
dreadful flight from the mission to the sea."
His bony fingers tightened over his wife's toilworn hand. In the long
grass along the creek fireflies sparkled, and their elfin lanterns,
waning, glowing, drifted high in the calm August night.
The Reverend Mr. Carew gathered his crutches; the night was a trifle
damp for him; besides, he desired to read. Brandes, as always, rose to
aid him. His wife followed.
"Don't stay out long, Rue," she said in the doorway.
"No, mother."
Brandes came back. Departing from his custom, he did not light a
cigar, but sat in silence, his narrow eyes trying to see Ruhannah in
the darkness. But she was only a delicate shadow shape to him,
scarcely detached from the darkness that enveloped her.
He meant to speak to her then. And suddenly found he could not,
realised, all at once, that he lacked the courage.
This was the more amazing and disturbing to him because he could not
remember the time or occasion when the knack of fluent speech had ever
failed him.
He had never foreseen such a situation; it had never occurred to him
that he would find the slightest difficulty in saying easily and
gracefully what he had determined to say to this young girl.
Now he sat there silent, disturbed, nervous, and tongue-tied. At first
he did not quite comprehend what was making him afraid. After a long
while he understood that it was some sort of fear of her--fear of her
refusal, fear of losing her, fear that she might have--in some occult
way--divined what he really was, that she might have heard things
concerning him, his wife, his career. The idea turned him cold.
And all at once he realised how terribly in earnest he had become; how
deeply involved; how vital this young girl had become to him.
Never before had he really wanted anything as compared to this desire
of his for her. He was understanding, too, in a confused way, that
such a girl and such a home for him as she could make was going not
only to give him the happiness he expected, but that it also meant
betterment for himself--straighter living, perhaps straighter
thinking--the birth of something resembling self-respect, perhaps even
aspiration--or at least the aspiration toward that respect from others
which honest living dare demand.
He wanted her; he wanted her now; he wanted to marry her whether or
not he had the legal right; he wanted to go away for a month with her,
and then return and work for her, for them both--build up a fortune
and a good reputation with Stein's backing and Stein's theatre--stand
well with honest men, stand well with himself, stand always, with
her, for everything a man should be.
If she loved him she would forgive him and quietly remarry him as soon
as Minna kicked him loose. He was confident he could make her happy,
make her love him if once he could find courage to speak--if once he
could win her. And suddenly the only possible way to go about it
occurred to him.
His voice was a trifle husky and unsteady from the nervous tension
when he at last broke the silence:
"Miss Rue," he said, "I have a word to say to your father and mother.
Would you wait here until I come back?"
"I think I had better go in, too----"
"Please don't."
"Why?" She stopped short, instinctively, but not surmising.
"You will wait, then?" he asked.
"I was going in.... But I'll sit here a little while."
He rose and went in, rather blindly.
* * * * *
Ruhannah, dreaming there deep in her splint armchair, slim feet
crossed, watched the fireflies sailing over the alders. Sometimes she
thought of Brandes, pleasantly, sometimes of other matters. Once the
memory of her drive home through the wintry moonlight with young
Neeland occurred to her, and the reminiscence was vaguely agreeable.
Listless, a trifle sleepy, dreamily watching the fireflies, the
ceaseless noise of the creek in her ears, inconsequential thoughts
flitted through her brain--the vague, aimless, guiltless thoughts of a
young and unstained mind.
She was nearly asleep when Brandes came back, and she looked up at
him where he stood beside her porch chair in the darkness.
"Miss Rue," he said, "I have told your father and mother that I am in
love with you and want to make you my wife."
The girl lay there speechless, astounded.